The Calm
by emeraldeyes83
Summary: AU now the books are complete. He teaches her that kissing can make her dizzier than flying. That kisses should come with warnings when he gives them, because she would commit crimes for his. Merlin, she is clinging onto him for precious life. That boys who play Quidditch have agile hands.
1. The Calm

_She liked him because he never made her feel stupid and young like all the other boys she knew, and because he'd saved her life. She respected him because he was courageous, brilliant at Quidditch and always called You-Know-Who Voldemort. She loved him because he had brave green eyes, and large, soft hands, and when he smiled it made her feel safe._

 _But her heart feels bleak._

 _She hates him now, because she has to. She hurts him because he has made her grow up, because he has saved her life, because he is brilliant. His brave green eyes are dark, ringed with tired circles and murky with defeat. She despises him because there are more important things than her, and nothing is more important than the Boy Who Lived._

* * *

She is young and follows him around like an adoring fan; she watches him from the other end of their house-table and writes his name, handwriting loopy, in the back of her Charms book.

* * *

At six she listens attentively as her older brothers tell tales of the Boy Who Lived and is awed.

At eight she pulls on one of her father's cloaks and makes-believe she is him. Her wand is a wooden spoon from the kitchen, her scar streaked on with ink, and her expression a mixture of mischief and defiance.

The arms of the robes are long and she keeps tripping over the tails, but nevertheless she continues her game until Ron proclaims himself a Death Eater and chases her round and round and round the kitchen table. At eight she doesn't understand what it means to Eat Death, and her childish innocence doesn't allow for thoughts on an impending war. She is scared because she doesn't like to be tickled, and that is her brother's favourite form of torture.

At ten she sees the Boy Who Lived face to face and is intrigued by his reality. He isn't as tall and as brave as Ron is, or as handsome as Bill, and doesn't have smiling eyes like Charlie. He isn't outwardly comical like Fred and George or upright and sturdy like Percy. From behind her mother she can't tell if he will be kind like her dad. This surprises her because for years she has moulded him on the only men she knew and cared for.

On the station that day she meets a boy who is like nothing she has ever experienced and yet…his smile seems humble like her brothers' and safe like her father's.

At fourteen she brings him chocolate in the library and tells him anything is possible.

She stops following him around after the night when she tails him to the Ministry, but promises herself that if he needs it she'll follow him to Azkaban and back. She learns that school-girl crushes almost always come to nothing; but her heart still retains a small flame, which flickers every time he smiles.

When she is sixteen he gives her flowers and a kiss and a promise.

* * *

He tastes of Quidditch. Of grass and wood and the air when you fly so high on your broom it makes you dizzy. And she remembers thinking that she would rather die before pulling pack from their first kiss, not that she could pull back if she wanted to, for his body is pressing hers into the Willow tree with such force she can't even breathe.

No, this wasn't how it was. She thinks that maybe she's added some of these memories with time.

But his kisses do make her dizzy and if she could drown her soul in his body she surely would. And she thinks she might die when he kisses her for the first time, one warm summer's evening in the fields beyond the Burrow, because she's panting and gulping for air and burning with need.

 _Ginny_ , he had breathed – and she remembers this quite plainly – _Ginny, you're beautiful_. And green eyes don't lie in the milky evening light. And she blushes and feels beautiful for a moment

* * *

She is sixteen and still looks about ten with her straight red hair and centre parting. And she is still referred to as the 'baby' of the family, or 'little Ginny.' She is of age when she decides that things need to change. The lady in her mirror nods earnestly and knits her brows, _Yes, dear, your look is rather dated_.

It is this summer, THE summer in which she begins to reinvent herself. This summer – the one after her fifth year – she decides once and for all that she and Harry Potter are just good friends.

Of course, to do this she must ignore that strange intuition in the pit of her stomach that has been brewing for a number of years. She passes this feeling off as hunger and eats another biscuit.

* * *

There he is. Harry. Her fifth year. Spring.

In real-time she doesn't see any of this happening, but now she watches like a bird from above, and sees more than before.

It is one of her favourite days: cool and clear and sunny, the water and the air are very still and very quiet. It's a Hogsmeade Weekend and she is asked to go by three boys who weren't Harry.

Just because she isn't in town drinking Butterbeer doesn't mean she isn't having a nice time, just sitting and looking. The sky is eggshell blue, and when she breathes little wisps of smoke appear before her eyes. And it is better than magic to be there, eyes squinting from the sun, and knuckles cold and sore, because looking out over the water makes her feel like she is the only thing in the world. Powerful.

He approaches from a distance with large purposeful strides – he isn't afraid of her in her memories – he is cool and confident. This is her truth.

From above she is invisible, covered by the green overhang of her favourite tree. The bird can't see that her back is against the trunk and her cold fingers are pressed into warm earth. The bird sees that before the tree is water, gallons upon gallons, and from above it looks silver, calm and fragile like glass or ice. Behind is grass and further back is the school building.

There he is. Harry. A blurred dot streaking towards her like a saviour. And the bird wonders why he isn't in Hogsmeade with that beautiful Hufflepuff girl who had been brave enough to ask him. No. There was no overhead bird to wonder it.

He moves the air with his purposefulness and it lifts her hair gently as he drops beside her and joins in her silent reverie. There are no words for a moment because she wonders if her feeling of power in this place is the same as his. His power over her. Over the world.

They talk, and they laugh and she is thinking that maybe she could be more to him than Ron's little sister. And he looks right into her eyes now and thinks that the only time he ever feels this wonderful is when they're together.

Stop.

She is a Prophet and Seer, not a mind-reader.

But he does look into her eyes and she blushes at his tenacity. It's intense. She trembles. He licks his lower lip. She mirrors the movement. Then her bird chirrups lightly.

And they don't kiss or anything, but he does hold her hand. And she feels faint and closes her eyes and drowns in thoughts that she didn't follow him here. He follows her now, he seeks her out in her secret places because he knows things, has taken the time to learn.

And she feels triumphant, but it quickly passes.

* * *

One voice haughtily says, _The way she follows him around, it's embarrassing._

 _Pathetic_. Another hisses.

 _I don't think she even knows she's doing it_. A third reasons carefully.

 _Aw_. The second draws out the vowel sounds sarcastically. The group laugh.

 _It's sad really_. The first returns with something that might be genuine sympathy, but it's unlikely.

 _I guess she must really think they have something_. The third voice tries to save her.

 _But she's only a Weasley. He's The Boy Who Lived_ … says the final voice, and it sounds like she's raising her eyebrows. _Gorgeous. Talented. Clever. Sexy. And she's so…plain_.

And she wants to be sick because she agrees.

* * *

She makes him feel all sorts of wonderful things that don't have names yet.

He thinks about her at times when he shouldn't, like now, in bed, late at night with Ron sleep-talking right there and Seamus snoring loudly. But it's like that now. She's his best friend and has been ever since Ron and Hermione started kissing last summer. Which is why he shouldn't. She is Ron's little sister, and Ron has a good aim.

* * *

She is always there: at Quidditch practices, in the rain, barking orders and telling her six male team-mates that they're prats. He thinks she would make a brilliant team-captain and turns to say just this and her cheeks are already red and she's smiling, so instead he mumbles and it gets lost in the wind.

* * *

In the common room she is popular. Friendly and funny. Flirtatious. It isn't the boys in her year she's interested in, he notes with a pang in his stomach, but his friends. And they all adore her when she is like this: hair long and straight, skin dewy, tie loosened and one leg crossed over the other.

He hears them talking while she undresses in the dorms above, removes her shirt, sweeps up her hair and slips into her nightclothes. He's seen her sleeping at the Burrow, duvet kicked off, creamy thighs visible from underneath her bed shirt, eyelashes shadowy against her cheeks.

He thinks of her undressing for bed and stiffens for her warmth. He is lost to the thought of her. Her small hands touch him and he struggles not to groan. He forgets that late night in the common room when Ron isn't there to hear the boys speak of her. He forgets how he'd snapped at them for Ron's sake. He feels her hands rather than his own and never wants it to stop.

His cheeks burn.

* * *

She wants to slap him. Hard.

How dare he? How _dare_ he.

She gets asked to Hogsmeade by Dean and says yes. Her school-girl crush will never amount to anything, so she thinks no harm will be done by dating a cute boy who smiles a lot.

She's wrong.

His green eyes darken with jealousy when he hisses that the sixth-year Gryffindor boys are taking bets on which one of them will be the first to sleep with her. And she wants to cry, but instead she suggests that maybe that isn't a bad thing.

He calls her names and she wants to cry some more because what gives him the right to judge her? She doesn't shout when he kisses Cho and any other girl who catches his fancy, or curse when he eyes-up some girl from Hufflepuff. Tosser.

And she doesn't go into town that weekend because, as much as her temper would love to smash his face against a wall (or at least force him to watch her have a great time with Dean), she can't bear to leave Hogwarts.

She sits underneath her tree, in the frost and gloom and wishes it would snow soon.

* * *

He knows he's a tosser. She doesn't have to say it: her red face tells him everything.

He wants her to slap him. Anything for human contact.

They have a huge fight, bigger than any of Ron and Hermione's, but no one is in the common room to hear it.

He doesn't go into town either even though his two friends pester him continually for about an hour. He has other things to do. Yes, he's an idiot. And yes, she should never speak to him again but…unlike her brother, he knows when to apologize.

He has been watching her for years. Watching, listening, learning, and knows exactly where she'll be. He started following her around somewhere near the beginning of her fifth year, first with simple excuses like Quidditch timetables and because he was sick of tagging along with Ron and Hermione, 'the couple.' But his truth was different: he liked her.

He likes her.

* * *

She makes him grovel for at least thirty minutes, even though his first sentence ( _Gin, I'm so thick_ ) softens her anger. They talk that day about things that matter: life and death, dreams and ambition. But they don't mention Dean.

* * *

And it is time for supper and no one has come to find them.

They sit in silence now and somehow they have shuffled close against the tree so that her right side is pressed against his left. But they pretend not to notice.

 _I like our time together_ , he stutters over his words but is determined not to mumble into the wind, _when we're alone_.

And they both blush, but thankfully it's dark and they can pretend that nothing has changed.

They stop going into town after that, and Hogsmeade weekends underneath her tree become a tradition.

* * *

He is falsely accused of kissing a bushy-haired know-it-all who is nothing more than a best friend, but no one ever thinks he has been snogging _her_.

* * *

Her kisses remind him of summers at the Burrow and the hue of lavender by the water, which makes his head foggy and eyelids heavy. Her kisses are desperate as though he is her life-support, and she buries her hands into his hair and presses him close.

She doesn't want to let him go. Or maybe it is him clinging to her that makes their first kiss feel so intense? He has wanted this for so long that not even the swarm of butterflies in his stomach can make him ignore the impulse to kiss her, against the Willow tree, in the fields beyond the Burrow.

Her kisses stop the world – not his heart, which is pounding loudly in his ears. Everything fades with her kiss: time, worries, thoughts, life. And if she stops it will all come rushing back, so he doesn't, until they are both gasping for breath. Her eyes are wild and he wants her.

 _Ginny_ , he says huskily, _you're beautiful. You're the most beautiful thing_ …

And her brown eyes become brighter than the stars in the moonlight.

* * *

And she blushes and feels beautiful for a moment.


	2. Before

Harry _, she pleads, later, when everything has been said,_ think. How can this be true? How can I be a prophet? I've never seen more than tea-leaves in the bottom of my cup…I don't even remember my dreams. I…

 _He isn't listening. It's the best thing to do considering the situation. He doesn't want to prolong this more than is necessary; he needs to do the right thing._ Ginny. _His voice is scratchy, like the bark against her back when they'd kissed, roughly, with juvenile desperation. It makes her shiver_. I believe Dumbledore.

We can get through this though, can't we? Together we can… _Her beautiful brown eyes fill with tears as she realises she is asking him for more than he can do. For more than what he is willing to give up._ Please Harry. _Please_. Dumbledore isn't always right. You need me, you need love to win, remember? Isn't that what he's always said and now… _Her voice is high-pitched and anguished, he knows he is breaking her heart but it has to be done._

 _Lifting a defiant jaw and unable to look her in the eyes he says:_ We can't afford to take the risk. It has to be done. _And finally_. I'm the Boy Who Lived.

And nothing's more important than that, is it? _She hisses, cheeks on fire as she holds her tears. He has the nerve to move his head. Her scowl deepens. Her earlier look of adoration fades._

* * *

—Too fast.

It doesn't happen like that; suddenly, yes, but not like that. Things happen before…

* * *

Her summer at the Burrow is hot and lively. It is a time of sundresses, of jumping into the pond fully-clothed, of wet fabric clinging to wetter skin, of red cheeks and an ache somewhere much lower and much more secret than her stomach when she realises he is watching her.

The summer after her fifth year at Hogwarts is a summer of discovery.

* * *

She gives them a mischievous smile. _We're only going to be young once_ , she coaxes softly. And even if he could talk with her bare knee pressed gently against his own, he knows he wouldn't form a coherent sentence.

Two bottles of Firewhiskey and four glasses sit in the middle of a circle in the fields just beyond the Burrow. Beside her is Ron, with slightly flushed cheeks and a gleam in his blue eyes she has loved since she was a child. Next is Hermione, who likes to pretend she never breaks the rules unless it's for the _good of Wizard-kind_ , looking _furious_ , lips pursed like there is something sour in her mouth. And him, black hair in green eyes which give him away: he's dying to do… _something_.

Though Hermione pretends to take the moral high-ground and reels off reason after reason why they shouldn't do it, no one misses the glimmer of curiosity at the back of her dark eyes. They all want to try it, to experience, to act like typical teenagers instead of the _little adults_ they have been since the age of eleven.

And when the dark liquid hits their throats, it burns and makes them splutter, but after that is warmth not different from a hug, only fiercer.

It makes them flush and giggle and do it again.

* * *

He loses four chess games in a row without breaking a sweat. He drops the Quaffle, misses every goal, and almost falls from his broom. He jumps when Ron says his name.

There's only one girl he's interested in, but he hides the thought somewhere where Ron will never find it. He has seen his friend hit Malfoy on more than one occasion for lesser crimes; he doesn't want that same fist in his face.

* * *

She is dripping wet and grinning. _Merlin, stop_.

* * *

The best thing about summer is the pond… Is running through the fields beyond the Burrow, feeling the wind whipping through her hair, which is long and loose and red like fire… Is the warmth on her skin, the salty taste as she runs her tongue over her lips, dropping into the shade of a leafy tree, and lying there underneath, hands folded on her stomach, eyelids fluttering closed.

* * *

Hermione is chasing after her, and she is vaguely aware of girly-shrieks escaping from her mouth. Oh, she doesn't care, because the wind is in her hair, raking through it as she runs, and her hands are clutching at the skirts of her dress and her bare feet are in the grass and she sprints with more energy than she should, considering the weather.

Hermione, calling her name threateningly, blurs past her. She, too, was wearing a light summer-dress and holding onto the skirts. Her hair is pulled into a prim ponytail, but her cheeks are flushed and her expression wanton. They tear past the boys in a haze of laughter, feet beating a track in the space of grass between where they lie.

He sits up and his gaze follows them blurrily; his friend rolls onto his stomach and grins. Ron has always liked Hermione in her cotton summer dresses.

* * *

The best thing about summer is the Burrow… Is warm apple pie and cold custard in the garden, served with tall glasses of lemonade clinking with ice in the afternoon light that makes her hair glow as if it is on fire… Is midnight Quidditch with the Weasley boys and, lately _her_ … Is his heart thudding in his chest when she offers him her hand and he takes it… Is her shapely figure in those light dresses as she runs and laughs and turns her eyes on him as if she doesn't know… Is that he is of age and no longer needs to seek refuge in the Muggles. He is alone and happy because of it.

Then he hears laughter and is warmed by many smiles and he thinks that maybe he isn't alone.

* * *

Later, as she lies in bed below him – _Underneath him_ , she likes to think with inner giggles and outward blushes – her head spins from more than a few swigs of Firewhiskey.

Her room is too hot for sleeping (though Hermione does so soundly), and her covers are thrown back in frustration. She remembers giggling at him; she remembers his eyes and all of that green…green… _green_ ness. She remembers wanting to push him into the grass and press her body against his, remembers wanting him to stop the ache that grows deeper when he gives her _that_ smile… Remembers wanting him to throw her back into the pond if only to cool her off.

His eyes had undressed her that morning by the pond as she, dripping wet, had flicked water in his direction. She is panting and breathless, though she hasn't been running, though she is lying in bed perfectly still. She imagines him above her, long body stretched out on his bed. He wouldn't be wearing a shirt to sleep in – the delicious discovery that he sleeps topless was made only days ago as they bumped into each other on the way to the shower.

She imagines dark hair against a white sheet, black lashes against damp skin, his neck and the dip in his collarbone – which she longs to run her tongue over. She imagines the taste of salt on his skin and the feel of his stomach under her mouth and the shape of his lips when he whispers her name.

She wants to touch herself in the dark.

* * *

He has never seen her look more innocent.

He finds her after dinner as the day rapidly fades into night, in the field beyond her home, sitting by her willow tree. That she has a tree both here and at school makes him smile fondly.

A veil of sunset-tinted light shadows her face from him until he is sitting close enough to kiss her, but even from far away he thinks of her as smiling. He remembers that her bare toes twitch and something in the air makes her sneeze.

The grass is too long, wild and still warm from a day of sunshine. Her fingers are light and quick as she links wildflowers into a chain. She reminds him of being six and watching, from a window in Privet Drive, Muggle girls making daisy chains and playing hopscotch on baking hot summer days. And when he is intense and quiet it reminds her of being a child too, she thinks of a time when his name awed her to silence and fingers tremble. She tires of feeling helpless.

Without a word and with shaking hands he plucks a flower and offers it in her direction. She blushes, he hopes, and lets their fingers graze as she finishes her crown. _What do you think?_ She giggles, when the flowers adorn her hair carelessly.

He thinks she looks like a wood nymph or a sprite or something else from a Muggle fairy story, but her eyes are so open and full of laughter, of hope, of affection, that words just won't do anymore.

So he kisses her.

* * *

He teaches her that kissing _can_ make her dizzier than flying.

That kisses should come with warnings when he gives them, because she would commit crimes for his. _Merlin, she is clinging onto him for precious life_.

That boys who play Quidditch have agile hands.

* * *

She teaches him that female skin smells nice and that kissing her in just the right place on just the right freckle – that one underneath her left ear – makes her whimper. That when she whimpers her eyes flutter between open and closed, struggling both to watch him and giving in completely.

That _Harry, Oh Harry_ can make him ache.

* * *

They are too comfortable with each other to let it change them because, as she reasons in one of their evening discussions, haven't they been pretending they _weren't_ going out for many months?

She still scolds him if he _dares_ to sulk, even for a moment; still beats him at chess with a gleam in her eye, and calls him a _loser_ when he fails to win midnight Quidditch. But now he grabs her behind her brothers' backs and knows she's ticklish. And he wouldn't ever call himself _carefree_ , but he's learning.

* * *

She doesn't want to wait.

It has been nice to play and run and kiss and pretend that the war isn't just around the corner but her eyes become suddenly serious in their staring. Their foreheads are warm and pressed together between kisses when she just says it, like that, in her straightforward way. _Harry, I don't want to wait_.

For a moment he doesn't understand what she's saying. He blinks. And then she feels his skin start to burn underneath her touch.

Ron and Hermione have been waiting for the right moment, but _she_ feels need and desperation and longing, and doesn't want to suppress them any longer. Of course it is his job to take a moral high-ground and tell her all of the things she already knows. She's too young, it's too fast, she has six older brothers…but even in all of this she sees the burn of desire at the back of his green eyes.

She tells him she's sixteen now, not ten, that she's ready and has been for a while, that Ron will probably beat him to a pulp but will secretly be happy for them. She removes his glasses and unhooks her bra and pretends to be confident and self-assured but her fingers are shaking so he takes them in his own and slows her down.

His hand is on the small of her back, which is covered with goose bumps, when he looks at her and says, _I'm not going to hurt you Ginny, I promise_.

She shows him where to put his hands and how to touch her and they move slowly, learning the curves and dips of each other tentatively. He knows how important it is for girls to take these things slowly so he tries not to rush her, even though his body demands it.

Feather-light touches from snitch-catching fingers are heavenly and she finds herself whispering, in the dark, how much she adores him. She adores the little things: the way he bites his lip when playing chess and the way he wears his house scarf. And in those moments, he feels like she is the centre of the universe because his whole being is drawn in to her while she looks at him intensely.

* * *

The real sex is rushed and awkward and over with much panting and sweating – mostly his. She doesn't come and doesn't outwardly mind because she is determined and wanting.

She doesn't come the second or third or even sixth time through _that_ , but somewhere along the way she falls over the edge with him, and his head is pounding with blood and her little hands cling onto him so tightly that nothing ever has felt, or ever will feel, so overwhelming.

* * *

Impulsive, feisty, horny, dirty. Sweet, sensitive, calm, patient.

He loves every side she shows him. Playful in the evenings with Ron as they tell stories of growing up, grumpy in the mornings before she's eaten breakfast, soft and purring as she whispers naughty things in his ear when they are alone.

* * *

Their hidden relationship is like a drug.

It is a refuge from a world that…that isn't bad enough yet to seek refuge from. But together they can hide away from the impending war, the impending end, the impending feeling that they have fallen in love.

Despite what people like to think, she _hasn't_ been in love with him since she was eleven years old. At eleven it was infatuation; at sixteen it feels something like lust. But under all of those teenage hormones and sneaking around to kiss, love flutters.

* * *

Sybill Trelawney has another prophecy and Professor Dumbledore arrives at the Weasley's as soon as a solution is thought of.

 _She_ sits very still as she watches a faded version of Trelawney, with her buggy eyes and spindly arms, tell her that everything she once knew is now different. _He_ stands close, not shaking, partly defiant, fingers briefly on her shoulder.

Professor Dumbledore doesn't miss their looks and touches, doesn't ignore them like the rest of the household, knows the first fluttering of love when he sees it. Dumbledore fears he has arrived too late.

 _The first female born into a pureblood family for many generations will hold the power to tear down our saviour in the final war…She will be a Prophet and a Seer…She will be strength in his time of weakness but he must be aware for she will find his fatal flaw …and she will be the one who destroys his heart…the one who ruins his power…their offspring will bear the mark of greatness…of greatness and pure evil. So one must die for the other to live, one must sacrifice their powers in the final battle…for a love that is allowed to grow this intense will only lead to destruction…_

She hears only part of it; Dumbledore's eyes tell her the rest.

* * *

She doesn't believe it, as much as she replays the words and thinks of the possibilities, but _he has to_. That's the difference, the moment everything changes; that's why it all falls apart.

Because _he has to_ believe.

 _Oh, for Merlin's sake! You sound like Luna Lovegood!_ She scoffs, tries to keep it light, flashes a small smile. He is unable to smile, he must survive so Voldemort doesn't, but if he survives then she must sacrifice herself. His chest hurts. _We aren't getting married or having children, we're just… falling in love._

 _I can't love you, Ginny_. It's a statement. He can't love _anyone_.

She makes a sound like a squashed cat. _So that's it?_ Her voice squeaks. _Please Harry…_

 _Gin_ , He looks at her with lost, frightened eyes and doesn't fight when she puts her arms around his body. He becomes alive with her touch, alive but defeated by his destiny. _I'm the Boy Who Lived, aren't I?_ He asks in a voice that doesn't sound like his own.

 _Apparently there's nothing more important than that_. She whispers into his chest, then feels guilty. With a soothing voice she tries to reason with him again.

* * *

 _Harry_ , she pleads, later, when everything has been said, _think. How can this be true? How can I be a prophet? I've never seen more than tea-leaves in the bottom of my cup…I don't even remember my dreams. I…_

He isn't listening. It's the best thing to do considering the situation. He doesn't want to prolong this more than is necessary; he needs to do the right thing. _Ginny_. His voice is scratchy, like the bark against her back when they'd kissed, roughly, with juvenile desperation. It makes her shiver. _I believe Dumbledore._

 _We can get through this though, can't we? Together we can_ … Her beautiful brown eyes fill with tears as she realises she is asking him for more than he can do. For more than what he is willing to give up. _Please Harry. Please. Dumbledore isn't always right. You need me, you need love to win, remember? Isn't that what he's always said and now_ … Her voice is high-pitched and anguished, he knows he is breaking her heart but it has to be done.

Lifting a defiant jaw and unable to look her in the eyes he says: _We can't afford to take the risk. It has to be done_. And finally. _I_ _am_ _the Boy Who Lived._

 _And nothing's more important than that, is it?_ She hisses, cheeks on fire as she holds her tears. He has the nerve to move his head. Her scowl deepens. Her earlier look of adoration fades.


	3. The Storm: Part 1

_She dreams death in colour._

His _is green, of course. Green light, green serpent, green eyes… All that sacrifice—and somewhere deep inside her is a jealous little voice whispering that she could never be enough even with such a gift_. How did she ever dream to end up in his arms, in his life, in his future? _She wonders, now, how she ever saw beyond this moment._

 _Ron and Hermione, "the couple," die always in red. In passion, in fury, in_ love. _One weeps bloody tears for the other, holding a limp body in shaking arms. They plough their way through Death Eater after Death Eater brandishing wands that bring nothing but blood and pain as they search for each other in the midst of war. They fight and snarl and call each other impossible and pretend like their innocent hearts aren't full to bursting with love._

 _They eat crimson strawberries by the lake and kiss when they think no one is around. They smile happy little smiles as though they can't see the blood—all that beautiful life-giving blood—just draining away._

 _Ron, alone, dies in black. Ever since she is old enough to remember, he has been there. He picks her up when she falls over and scrapes her knees, he reads her bedtime stories in the dark, and he sneaks her cookies and milk when she's been naughty and sent to her room without supper. Ron, alone, dies in black. Rarely, because he has always been and will always be her saviour. She wakes from these black dreams with screams and tears, with her hair plastered to her damp forehead and hands fisted in the sheets._

 _She never dreams of her own death but she knows its colour. She dies in white. And in a white dream there are no tears or bright lights or feelings of never being enough for_ him _or_ anyone. _There is flying, but no Quidditch. And Peace. So much_ peace, _and no more dreams._

* * *

For the first sixteen years of her life she doesn't dream. Well, dream she might, but in the mornings with the sun streaming through the windows at the Burrow, or the rain tapping its impatient fingers on the glass, her waking hours are frenzied with living and not remembering.

 _Harry_ , she pleads in a whiney little voice, always when she is alone and replaying the last real conversation they had, _think. How can this be true? How can I be a prophet? I've never seen more than tea-leaves in the bottom of my cup…I don't even remember my dreams. I…_

She learns the true meaning of irony the evening after the fight with him—the _break-up_ , she thinks. It is after this confession that dreams become the things she can't stop remembering. After this conversation, tea-leaves mould themselves into intricate patterns that she might be able to read if only she knew the language they were speaking in.

* * *

Ginevra. _Professor Dumbledore says her name in his dulcet tones and she doesn't dare move_. Ginny. _He tries again, and this time a flinch courses through her body. This isn't right; it is all too informal, whatever happened to the_ Miss Weasley _who went to Hogwarts School and ate chocolate in the library?_

Ginny, I'm sorry you had to find out like this. _He paces the room slowly but her eyes don't catch the movement, they are too busy making patterns on the wooden floor_. You see, the Seer gene usually presents itself long before the carrier's eleventh birthday. In fact, it is often one of the first signs of magical ability; we just assumed you hadn't inherited the trait from the Weasley bloodline.

 _He isn't making sense, but seems unaware of it and continues_. Seeing is mainly linked with the female, it takes a very empathetic person to bind these abilities, and a powerful witch to control them for her own use. We believe you have the power.

 _She wants to scream_ Who the fuck is "we"? _at the top of her lungs, but doesn't dare. If she just keeps still maybe this will all go away. Maybe this will all make sense. Maybe, she thinks with a smirk in her mind, she's_ dreaming.

Of course you are wondering about the prophecy and its solution. And of Harry. _Her eyes lift at the mention of his name; Dumbledore's face tells her her fate_.

* * *

It would've have been easy if only that stupid intuition in the pit of her stomach would give in for just a moment. She eats an entire tub of biscuits and drinks a gallon of milk under her mother's watchful eyes. She wants to tell her mum, but can't because having sex with a boy one isn't betrothed to is a terrible crime. It makes her a scarlet woman. It makes her weak and easy and broken.

If only it is as easy as giving him up. If only her body doesn't shake from missing his touch; if only she hasn't fallen in love with him. Because it's not all touching and making love and being breathless and giddy and begging him to _never stop, ever_.

She knows that the way she recalls it is as though their only moments together were lustful or passionate. But there was more. There were midnight chess in the living room and cups of hot chocolate in the kitchen. There were tears over Sirius's death and tears for all of those still to lose their lives in the final battle. There were talks of the war and fighting and all of those serious crosses he had to bear.

And then there were the other times, the mundane times. The eating of breakfast in a comfortable silence; how he would pass her the tomatoes, and she would give him the eggs, and they would laugh at the absurd comfort they had fallen into over little more than a year. There was the sitting side by side underneath her tree at Hogwarts, doing homework in the spring, and triumphant Quidditch matches, falling into the changing room aching and tired and freezing and covered in mud, but exhilarated. Feeling as though she was still high when he swooped down on her and gave her a congratulatory hug.

There was the feeling that friendship and love and lust and everything were so complicated and intertwined, that without him she was fading back into the little girl who was foolish enough to let the Dark Lord into her head.

* * *

Harry, _Dumbledore speaks with a parental fondness as he addresses the boy – man – later, alone_. I fear I am already too late to stop you falling in love with Miss Weasley. At the very least I can see you care about her greatly, I am not so old that I don't remember what it is like to feel consumed by the beginnings of a relationship. Know this however: it is her fate you now hold in your hands. Love can be a great weapon, but there are many types of loving relationship. Be aware, Harry, when you make your decision that love can also be a great destroyer.

 _He squares his shoulders and tries to appear taller and defiant, but the wise-ness of his mentor's eyes stops an adolescent outburst. Of course he wants to throw furniture and scream the house down, but the breaking part of him won't allow the movement_.

You are the Boy Who Lived, Harry, and sometimes that means sacrificing your happiness for the well-being of others.

* * *

She runs frantically through the fields beyond the Burrow, neither chasing nor being chased, her face stormy with despair. Her fiery hair is streaming behind her, and she is nothing more than a blur from Ron's bedroom window.

 _He_ shoves his hands into his pockets to stop a finger from tracing her outline through the glass as she stops and doubles over with breathlessness. Determinedly, he turns from her image and squeezes his eyes together to rid it from memory. He knows he can't avoid her forever; he knows that it is too late for that.

He knows she is running away from something.

If only it is as easy as running through the fields or throwing his arms around the trunk of their tree and pressing his cheek against the bark. If only it is as easy as telling her he cannot love her and leaving it there.

He wants to sit with her and not talk, but that is impossible now. They _were_ falling in love, and now they are sworn apart for the good of Wizard future. So many things remain unsaid, things that he thought he had a lifetime to speak. And even more things have been cursed in harsh whispers that there is no way of going back to just sitting and being comfortable.

* * *

 _The next day at breakfast she doesn't eat, rather she chases scrambled eggs and tomatoes around her plate with a slow fork. He is drinking black coffee and looking as though he hasn't slept for a week. She grimaces when Ron and Hermione insist on talking about her new "gift," as though it is the most normal thing in the world for her to be suddenly All-Seeing._

 _Hermione wants to know exact details so that she can do research, her mother wants her to be careful, and Ron wants to know if she can read his mind._

 _She wants to scream at_ him _and Dumbledore across the table and ask them if they're_ happy? _If they're_ proud _of what they've done to her? She wants all of this nonsense to simply disappear and take her with it because it_ just isn't true.

 _How can she ever destroy him? He is the most important Wizard in the world and she is just a Weasley. She will never hurt him—that's what she wants to scream at them both, it is what she wants to shake into them until they look at her and understand. All she has ever wanted was for him to let her love him openly. She isn't even asking for love back. Just for companionship. Trust. Friendship. Being there for each other no matter what._

 _Now, acknowledgement will have been a welcome change._

* * *

The Firewhiskey's fierce hug is a welcome relief.

She sits underneath the tree with the bottle in her lap and a glass in her hand. She doesn't like drinking but she doesn't stop. All of her life it has been drummed into her that good girls get good things. Nice witches finish first. _What a load of bollocks_.

She notices a smoky line on the horizon and hopes it might rain soon. She can think of nothing more cleansing than being drunk in the rain, drenched to the skin and crying into the mud. Warm, clear evenings were for lovers, not the broken-hearted.

 _Ginny, what are you doing?_ His voice is tired and laced with something she doesn't recognise. She hopes it is remorse.

She wishes that her stomach wouldn't flip giddily when he is close, and wishes she could be stronger than him. If only she could be in charge, bring him to him knees; make him want to give up everything for them.

She tries to stop the sarcasm but it's out before it registers. _Oh, if it isn't Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived_.

He visibly flinches and opens his mouth to retort, but closes it without a word.

He reaches for the alcohol and she surrenders, but rather than throwing it away or giving her a lecture, he pours another drink and swallows it in one gulp. They don't talk or look at each other, but they sit, backs against the bark facing out into the approaching storm.

* * *

Her screams link themselves in his memory.

One moment they are both quiet and it is intense, and in the next lightning flashes, thunder claps, and the heavens begin to weep. She is on her feet, empty glass and bottle left behind as she leaves the shelter of the tree.

Out in the pouring rain she spreads her arms and screams furiously, her little voice drowning in the hammering of water on grass and her body and the world. And then her mouth closes and her expression changes, but she is still screaming. This time it is laughter, and her shoulders shake visibly with it. Her clothes are rapidly becoming see-through, with her hair wet and dark and streaming down her back.

Without her glee, he gets to his feet, bringing the glass and bottle with him. The rain is icy and bites at his bare arms as though it is made of little teeth, and for a moment, the pair of them, illegally standing in the pouring rain with an empty Firewhiskey bottle is the most ridiculous thing he has ever witnessed.

 _It's raining_ , he tells her seriously, raising an arm to stop water splashing onto his glasses. She is still laughing and seems unaware in her drunken state that standing in the pouring rain is likely to make her sick. He grabs her wrist and pulls her with him.

They only make a few steps before she stops and he is jolted back.

 _What?_ she asks still giggly, eyes wide and shining.

 _It's raining_ , he repeats slowly in his best Hermione-voice, _we'll catch our death_.

She laughs and throws out the arm he isn't holding. Her right wrist and the bottle are held in his right hand so that when she moves to grab the glass from his left, their arms cross comically.

 _Let me see that_ , she whispers breathlessly. She holds it up to her eye and peers inside so that her pupil appears large and buggy. _Ah, Harry Potter_ , she says sadly, shaking her head, _you have the Grim_. Her screams of laughter are covered by more thunder.

 _Ginny, it's raining!_ He lets her go, and they stand staring at each other, arms dropped to their sides, probably drunk and possibly still in love.

 _I know!_ Her voice comes out hoarse and more confrontational than she would've liked. He doesn't want to fight and makes a move to leave her there, looking like a drowned Ophelia in the darkness. _Wait_ , she pleads. _Isn't it beautiful?_

Lightning forks across the sky, and before either have time to blink, thunder follows, but they don't jump. Her eyes are filled with more electricity than the storm above them, and he forgets himself. For the first time in over a week, they are actually looking at each other, right in the eyes, and it is unsettling.

 _Ginny_ … he murmurs and his eyes darken.

She sees it happening before it does, and knows she has exactly three seconds to step away. _One_ … she takes a long shaky breath… _two_ … she moistens her lips with her tongue… _three_ … her eyes don't so much as blink. And then his mouth is on hers, crashing over her, and the feeling of being nothing and invisible are gone, and in their place is a calm contented buzzing.

When he pulls back, everything rushes in again: the rain is too loud in her ears and the whiskey has made her head dizzy. He is numb from cold and drink, and doesn't refuse when she takes his hand and leads him inside.

Sometimes words aren't enough. Sometimes there aren't any words to say _sorry_ or _love_ or _I'm going to die without you_. Sometimes talking isn't needed and only physical touch from another human being will do. Sometimes there are more important things than a promise to a professor or a prophecy.

 _Sometimes_.

* * *

Later, her screams of pleasure fill his mind and crawl through his veins and mix with his own. Later, her screams of pleasure link his memory and his longing.

Her little contented whimpers cloud his vision, and he blinks – once, twice, three times – before he remembers his glasses were discarded in an earlier desperation.

There isn't anything to look at in the now ghoul-less attic, which she has wanted to make her own personal haven for a long time now. The summer has been busy with things more important than decoration (she is determined to do it 'Muggle-style'), so there is nothing more than a mattress and piles of boxes to look at.

Not that he's looking. His cheek and nose are pressed into her soft stomach, and his eyelids are unable to hold themselves open for long.

Her head is flying high above her and it is all she can do to stop her body from floating right off the bed to join in. Dizzy. She is so dizzy she feels light, as though the smallest whisper will blow her away. Her chest is heaving, and her fingers that moments previously were fisted into the bed sheets are now tangled in his black hair and keeping him pressed so close, that she has trouble knowing where he ends and she begins.

She can feel his heart, beating steadily against her pelvis as they tune in their breathing so that they rise and fall together. She can feel his hand trapped underneath her buttocks, still caressing her lightly, and his wet mouth against her tummy.

He wants to stay like this forever, but he will never utter such a thought to her. This is wrong. No matter how complete and wonderful and high he feels…in the darkness and the rain he had taken her wrongly.

 _He had followed her upstairs, and watched selfishly as she removed his wet clothing without even a hint of a blush. He had wallowed in the feeling of her lips on his skin and her hands in his hair and her tongue over his stomach. He had undressed her with rough hands, and crushed her against him forcefully. He had been desperate and needy and longing for her to make the whole world just disappear once more._

 _They had both been frantic and drunk and reaching out for each other in the musky dark of the attic. She had pulled him against her, scratched her nails down his back, and nipped at his neck and shoulders until he'd moaned out in pleasure. He, too, was insatiable, hard and passionate, explosive and wanting. In the intoxicated throes of passion he had pinned her arms above her head and made her tell him she wanted him._

 _And then_ , afterwards, _lying face-to-face on the small mattress, his cheeks flushed and her fringe damp against her forehead, he reached forward and brushed the hair from her eyes. And then, he smiled and sucked her bottom lip into his mouth_. And then… _then they had made love and it had been different and giving and tender_.

In the trickle of morning light that creeps over her, she can feel herself blushing. Guilt rises up her neck and floods her cheeks with colour. It had felt so good in the darkness to be with him again, and hear him say her name and say she was beautiful, but now it is different. She murmurs something incoherent and feels him shift slightly. He pulls up onto all fours and looks at her blurrily, mouthing her name.

His body is _beautiful_ , she thinks as he crawls up her own, all _taut_ limbs and defined edges. He isn't muscular because Seeking keeps him sleek and small, but his back feels firm. She traces the dark trail of hair running from his bellybutton with a finger because the touch drives them both crazy. He moves close, close enough to see into her eyes and tangle a hand into her unruly hair.

A brief smile flickers at the corners of his mouth as he remembers the night before and how she had looked like a true witch narrowly escaping a ducking stool death. But his smile falters when she reads his mind.

 _It's over, isn't it?_ Her voice is soft and milky despite the situation.

He doesn't know if she finally believes the prophecy or not; he doesn't ask. In truth, he believes she will be better off without him anyway. Loving him only ends in destruction.

 _It has to be_ , he breathes sorrowfully, knowing in the secret, intuitive part of him that things will never truly be over between them. If anything, their newly revealed prophecy highlighted that—it divided them, yes, but it would also eternally unite them.

They kiss, and she pours everything she has ever felt into it. She pours hate and lust and other things that can't be named, only felt, and he is left breathless. In her eyes he sees flashes of the night before, flashes of her _begging_ him to fight for her, begging him to _choose her_ , to let her save him…but Dumbledore's words were final. It is _HE_ who must do the saving.

 _Ginny_. He presses their foreheads together, and wants to take everything back. He wants to stop her as she strokes a finger over his collarbone and moves out from underneath him. For a moment they lie face to face on the small mattress without saying anything more, and then she smiles bravely and moves to get up.

She hands him his glasses in a business-like manner, and dresses in last night's muddy clothes. He covers himself with the sheet and lies there on his back staring determinedly at the ceiling. _This is so fucked-up, Gin._

The sentence is so unlike him that it makes her blushing skin blanch. His face is screwed up, and his palms are pressed against his eyes. She wants to go to him like she always has done, to tell him everything will be alright. She wants to curl against him and press her face into the crook of his neck, but she abstains. She knew he will not grant her the privilege of comforting him, why make it more devastating than it already was? He doesn't want to fight for them; he doesn't think that prophecy is weak and yielding like she does. For him, it is easier to believe she will betray him, hurt him, break him.

That they aren't meant to be.

* * *

Her bare feet squelch in the mud as she runs away from the Burrow.

The morning is grey and miserable from the electric storm the night before, and it mirrors her mood. She had expected the thunder to clear the muggy heat that has been settling over her of late, but in the clear light of day, she realises that everything is worse than it ever was.

She can hear someone shouting her name, but she doesn't stop running. They have more important things to worry about than _her_ …than the fact that she is falling and sinking and disappearing right before their eyes. There is the war and the Order and Harry Potter. He has everyone now: Dumbledore, her parents, Ron, Hermione…and she _had_ had him.

 _There is nothing left_.

She runs right up to the edge of the pond and into the icy water, ignoring the drag from the weight of her clothes as she wades in. It strikes her how pathetic she's being, and she stops, waist-deep, to the sound of screaming.

 _GINNY! GINNY, STOP!_

Hermione is standing at the bank of the river in her powdery blue pyjamas and slippers. She is covered in mud from chasing after her, hair huge and face distraught. _Ginny?_ she asks again but softer. Without a thought, Hermione also wades into the pond.

 _She_ looks into those familiar eyes, and fleetingly breaks. With a sound like a drowning cat, she starts to cry and doesn't pull away when Hermione puts arms around her.

They stand there, like that, holding onto each other for dear life for what seems like hours. _She_ is sobbing that she never _asked_ for any of it, it wasn't _her_ fault, all she ever wanted was to be _good enough_ …but nothing she says makes proper sense. And when they finally trudge back inside, she is still trembling and gasping for breath, but she refuses to talk.

 _There are more important things to worry about_ , she says.

* * *

Eleven OWLs, one less than Hermione the most-brilliant-witch-of-her-age-Hogwarts-has-ever-seen, and no Prefect's badge. A ninety-nine percent attendance record (one 'late mark' given by Snape for arriving _one second_ after nine o'clock, and the theory that she should be grateful he wasn't _deducting points from Gryffindor for her unpunctuality_ ), and no Prefect's badge.

A ninety-nine percent attendance record, ten percent more than Ron, and no Prefect's badge. Working her arse off at school, on the Quidditch field and in her exams, and still no Prefect's badge. Tucking in her shirt, watching her language, and staying out of fights, and no Prefect's badge. Losing the love of her life, becoming a Seer, and training in the Dark Arts to NEWTs level, and still _no bloody Prefect's badge._

 _Congratulations, Ron and Hermione, Head Boy and Girl!_ She wants to pull their banner down and cry her heart out right in the middle of the party. _Nice one, Harry! Quidditch Captain!_ She wants to pull the banner down and shred it into millions of pieces, and stamp amongst the streamers and food and smiling faces, and scream that she has _fucked him_ in the attic.

 _Well done, Ginny, Eleven OWLs!_

She wants to be someone she isn't anymore.

* * *

Her fingers tremble with adrenaline as she lays the silver scissors onto her dressing table. The lady in her mirror wolf-whistles and catcalls, and without seeing her reflection, she knows she is blushing. Tufts of red hair are scattered over the light-wood dresser and on her pale freckled knees like feathery kisses.

No magic and no wands. No trip to Diagon Alley for her, or sitting in the cutting chair in the kitchen, waiting patiently for her mother to finish with her brothers' haircuts. The Muggle scissors make her smile at her reflection.

* * *

 _Ginevra Weasley!_ Her mother's voice is high-pitched, and anguished as though she might start crying at any moment. _She_ hopes she's wrong because seeing her mum cry wouldn't do anything to improve her current mood.

She shrugs and shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Her newly cut fringe is blunt and eye-skimming and sexy…of course her mum would scream the house down about it. _Mum…_ she pleads mutely, _don't. Notice…just for a second…I'm drowning._

 _Don't even think about 'mum'-ing me, Ginevra!_ Molly warns in deadly tones as though she has half heard her daughter's pleas. _Your hair, your beautiful hair…_

 _She_ tunes the sound of her mum's voice out now, but sometimes she hears terms like _'scarlet woman'_ and _'well-bred witches,'_ and wishes she isn't so broken and filthy.

* * *

Ron. _Ron will notice_. Ron is her only hope now.

He is rarely found alone, but it is two days until the start of term, and tonight Hermione is talking to _him_ about spells and charms and a powerful curse that might work if only they could translate the Latin properly. Her brother is lounged out on a sofa, one arm resting on the back, while the other is holding an old _"Chudley Cannons Annual,"_ long legs stretched out over the cushions. He isn't really reading because every so often his eyes drift over to Hermione and rest there until she looks up and catches his gaze. Both grin and pretend to return fully to their previous tasks.

 _She_ feels invisible once more in a room filled with _the incredible trio_ , because none of them so much as acknowledge her presence. Ron is watching Hermione out of the corner of his eye. Hermione is focused partly on her books, partly on _him_ , but mostly on Ron. _He_ is trying to sink into a background he will never be a part of.

Perhaps wishes do come true.

Perhaps she has wished so hard to just disappear in the past few days that now she is nothing more than a milky scent in a candlelit room.

Her large eyes are dark and unblinking as she moves to Ron's side and settles into a space on the sofa, climbing over his legs and curling herself into a ball at his feet. He looks up from _The CCA_ and smiles cheekily. Without a word he reaches forward and swipes his fingers across her forehead. The action removes the fringe from her eyes and calms the shaky feeling that crawls somewhere underneath her skin.

 _Mum's still having a fit_ , he tells her in his familiar way. _I don't think I've ever seen her go this bonkers. Bloody brilliant, Gin_.

She wants to smile but is unable to move her face that way. In truth, Ron hates her new haircut because his baby sister has no right to try to make herself look older or different or sexier, but he pretends, and she loves him for it.

In her mind, she says his name and hopes she can reach into his thoughts without speaking. What is the use of being prophetic at times like these? She wishes she is something different, something that Muggles call 'telepathic.'

 _Ginny_ … She notices the change in his eyes and her heart soars. His finger runs down the bridge of her nose playfully as it used to when she was eight and frightened of the dark. Ron doesn't know what to say or how to ask because he has never been a man of many words like _that. Come here._

Willingly she curls herself into the hug in a way she hasn't since she was a small child. He accepts her form and rests a cheek on top of her head. Ron doesn't say anything, but rocks her a little and makes shushing noises that flow soothingly through her veins and stop the shaking.

She feels vulnerable and exhausted, but in his arms she knows sleep will come and her dreams will be emptier.


	4. The Storm: Part 2

_July had blurred by in blue skies and warm afternoons and waiting by the pond's bank for_ him. _On his birthday her family had gathered in the living room and sang_ Happy Birthday to You _in cheery voices whilst she'd mouthed the words with comical conviction._

 _The cake was decorated in Gryffindor colours and the iced lion on top had roared loudly anytime anyone dared to take a slice. She ate all afternoon, but now she forgets the last time food had tasted of anything other than bile._

 _This year Hermione didn't opt for the practical approach and Ron didn't dismiss the useful choice of present. It had been_ her _idea, way back in April when_ she, _Ron and Hermione had been sure he would win the position of Quidditch captain. It was an emerald-coloured wood square not unlike a chess board made to imitate a tiny Quidditch pitch. It came with enough pieces to duplicate two teams who could be bewitched into changing uniform colours. The contraption, which_ they _had once seen in a corner of a small shop on Diagon Alley, was ideal for working out game plans as the players hovered obediently above the pitch on their tiny brooms or chased a near-invisible snitch._

 _She had been unfazed by the celebrations and the cheer and the cake, but she couldn't ignore his face as he opened his presents._

 _Those_ eyes, _and_ oh Merlin, _how was she supposed to stop feeling like_ this _when he had looked at her like_ that?

* * *

Many days later, when the streamers have been cleared away and the house is quiet, she sits on the top stair, in the dark, with a small wooden figure cradled in her lap. The figure is a tiny witch with long, flame-coloured hair and a Weasley smile. She is part of a set of three he had been given for his birthday to go onto the miniature Quidditch pitch.

Sitting at the top of the stairs with wet eyes, she feels foolish and young and alone. Only hours ago, saving her counterpart from laying side by side in the box with a miniature him had seemed perfectly reasonable.

She muffles her sobs with the back of her hand.

* * *

 _Nothing changes._

At school, supper in the Great Hall is loud and boisterous, and the common room is warm and safe and feels like a home-from-home. After the Sorting Hat sorts with its same wry humour, Dumbledore speaks about the importance of friendship and loyalty and _standing together through difficult times_. Either no one notices or everyone else is pretending too.

Across the table Hermione lifts her eyes and smiles warmly. It is a reassuring smile, a _mother's_ smile. Hermione had given the same smile _that_ morning in the lake and again on the train because _she_ had been gripping the edge of _her_ seat so tightly _her_ knuckles turned white. Hermione had passed the same smile across the breakfast table on a million evenings just like this one. Only it _wasn't._

The table is crowded and her thigh is pressed against _his_ beneath the table. She is trying to block out everything, including the steady pounding of her heart and Dumbledore, who is watching them as though he knows about everything: the attic and her hatred and that tiny burning feeling that is getting bigger with every breath.

She wants to look over at _him_ but she doesn't. She wants to know if he can feel the fire beneath her skin. She wants to know if the clattering of plates and the cheery voices makes his flesh itch and his fingers crave touch and warmth and _her._

He shifts his weight and she is lost. Now it is Seamus's thigh she can feel, hard and warm and pressed close as if he is trying to reach out with it. But it is no good, because without _him_ she is losing herself again. She falls and fades and lowers her eyes as sounds and people weaken into colours and murmurs.

And if she was listening she would hear Ron and Hermione start to bicker across the table about timetables or exams or how much of a pig he was when he ate. And if she _were_ listening she would hear Neville joke that _nothing changes,_ and she would look up and scowl or mutter a reply.

 _Everything changes, he_ murmurs solemnly.

She isn't listening.

* * *

In September, Ron organises a party for Hermione's eighteenth birthday. _She_ sees the glimmer of hope in his eyes as he talks about the four of them having a good time again. Her brother remembers the summertime with fondness and naïvely longs for an era that has since passed.

Across a crowded common room _they_ avoid each other expertly. _He_ slumps on one of the armchairs with a drink and pretends not to be watching her from the corner of his eye. _She_ perches in the windowsill and drinks enthusiastically from a bottle wrapped in brown-paper when it is offered by Seamus.

She enjoys the fierce kiss of alcohol in her throat, swigging more to wipe the sight of Parvati Patil putting her hand on _his_ arm and more to drown his interested smile. And in the months to follow she will always blame him for everything that comes next because _her_ Harry would've known… He would've seen Seamus offer her a hand and though he might've allowed him to lead her across to the portrait hole, he would've stopped them from sneaking through the corridors and down the stairs and out into the blustery evening.

She glances over her shoulder as she exits the room and through the haze of Parvati's exotic perfume, knows she has disappeared.

* * *

Her feet dangle over the edge of the wall, trainers scuffing stubbornly at it whilst the cold stones make her bum go numb. She wishes she were alone now because all she can see is green whether her eyes are open or closed, and all she can feel is passion.

 _Do you want?_ Seamus murmurs in his thick accent, holding a packet of Muggle cigarettes in her direction expectantly.

And she does want, more than cigarettes and cheap drinks and stolen kisses. What she wants could quite possibly kill her so instead of voicing these fears she lights the small white stick and inhales quickly, over and over and over, praying for a painless end.

Seamus laughs at her when she coughs and teases her for going so fast. Without taking his eyes from hers, his hand finds its way to her leg and he tells her her new haircut looks nice. And maybe it is the drink or the smoke or the thought of _him_ touching someone else, but she is suddenly kissing Seamus so hard she can barely think straight.

 _Do you think I'm pretty?_ she whispers breathlessly.

 _I think you're beautiful._

She is the one being kissed this time, but softer because his hand is making circles upon her thigh and is begging to go higher and deeper. _Tell me again,_ and this time her voice is fragile and pleading in the darkness.

 _You're so beautiful, Ginny._ And this time she will let him do whatever he wants as long as he tells her she's beautiful, and as long as he lets her be, and she closes her eyes and fall back into a musky attic memory.

* * *

It is _not_ like fucking in the attic.

It is hard and fast and over with so quickly she is left dizzily wondering if it had ever happened. She knows though, because she wasn't quite ready, and it hurt a little, but she didn't stop.

And now she feels raw and filthy. This is her punishment. And she lets herself be punished as much as they want because oh to feel wanted and beautiful for a moment is worth every ounce of self-humiliation.

* * *

Her school skirt becomes loose and she has to put a stitch in it.

She spends two afternoons a week with Sybill Trelawney, disappearing on silk cushions and in the bottom of cups of tea. _She_ is a cynic and bites her knuckle with laughter whenever the bug-eyed professor begins to warble about _the Grim_ or _destiny_ …but somewhere amidst the incense and meditations and trying to predict the future, she finds a small sense of belonging.

* * *

On a Monday and a Thursday and a Friday she makes a connection.

Professor Lupin, _Remus,_ resides in a tiny cluttered room on the third floor for a purpose that is lost on nearly all of the population of Hogwarts. She goes there three evenings a week and he reads to her from dusty volumes or teaches her spells and techniques that are supposed to save their lives.

Sometimes they just talk, in low tones, about times past. About Sirius and about James, about summers at the Burrow or the holidays or anything that isn't the war and Harry Potter.

 _He_ comes into this room twice a week and it reeks of his presence. She sees the book he has been reading in the common room, open pages splayed facedown on Remus' mahogany desk. She notes a tatty bit of parchment covered in his boyish scrawl. She wraps herself in the checked blanket for warmth and thinks about his body pressed against her back.

* * *

 _He_ can smell her on the blanket.

Her presence lingers against his flesh: in the morning when his mind is somewhere between her mouth and her stomach; in the afternoons when he sees her carrying books across the grounds; in the evenings when he is like this.

He trains hard. He has never been strong or fit in body and supposes that he never will be, but after hours of perfecting spells and counter curses, sit-ups and running are the only training he can lose himself in. He runs through warm September evenings, into blustery October, rainy November, and icy December.

On a Monday and a Thursday night he makes himself hurt. For every thought he shouldn't have he runs an extra lap of the Quidditch pitch. Soon, just seeing a flash of her fiery ponytail makes him _ache._

* * *

In October _she_ stops flying, Gryffindor loses at Quidditch to Ravenclaw and Susan Bones lets _him_ walk her out into the darkness.

 _She_ forgets the art of conversation and instead finds expression in a series of looks, most of which are scowls. When Parvati asks her if she's seen _him_ she smiles a wry little smile and shakes her head.

Susan Bones, her light-coloured top visible in the darkness arches her back against the tree and her mouth makes a shape that imitates a whimper. _She_ knows that feeling, she knows that _mouth,_ wet and _wanting_ and burning into her flesh. From the common room window she forces herself to watch the scene below.

Susan is neither the first nor the last girl to be pressed roughly against that tree.

 _Ginny…_ The sound of her name makes her shiver, makes her uneasy in her own skin. Dean has a lovely smile. She wants him to kiss her and touch her until she forgets about green eyes and forbidden desire.

* * *

Dean Thomas likes it when she is on top. Seamus likes it when she says his name over and over. And sometimes they both like her to be underneath and quiet.

* * *

By November _his_ beautiful eyes are ashen from sleepless nights, the Great Hall is slowly emptying of children whose families are too afraid to let them remain at school and _she_ has taken to disappearing for long hours, only to return glazed and unsteady.

In an empty common room he sets up his miniature Quidditch pitch and makes the tiny flame-haired witch fly around it at an uncontrollable pace.

The next girl might be the one who makes him forget that Ginny Weasley has spoiled him with her love and her friendship and her _You're a prat_ and her smile and her _Harry, don't stop, ever._

* * *

It wasn't to make herself _feel better,_ she emphasises to no one in particular. That wasn't the _point._ Her arms are flung wide, appealing to the sky, the ground, anything that would listen. _The point was_ (and here she stamps her foot childishly) _that he had promised._

She wishes she can pretend that sometimes, if only for a moment, she forgets about him. But whilst it is easy to whisper the wrong name when fumbling in the dark, it is hard to make the truth disappear.

She isn't upset though. _She isn't._ She is so _furious_ her cheeks burn with it. The point was that he had promised. And too many people let him get away with things because he is Harry Potter.

* * *

They don't even fight anymore. Why bother? Why let him know that he fuels not only her lust, but her passion as well? Harry Potter is better off not knowing how much power he has over her.

 _But he knows._

How can he not when they spend their entire existence trying to avoid each other? For long weeks she refuses to look at him in the common room or at dinner and he barely utters her name. Ron is bemused by the fact he now only says _your sister_ or _her._ Or _she._

 _She_ notices the change in him. Of course. She was never naïve enough to think that he would stay the same, stay _her Harry_ after everything that had happened. Was she?

He started holding hands with Parvati Patil way back in September, not long before he began leading girls out to that tree in the grounds, and tonight they sit, closer than ever, curled together and whispering. And maybe it is the lull of the ochre fire or the way they create a perfect tableau entitled _in love,_ but her eyes won't be drawn away from them, kissing and _touching,_ her in _his_ lap.

The Weasley in her wants to break his nose.

She wants to make him bleed before starting in on her. Wants to scratch a thick black line through the title they've given themselves and write in huge black letters: LIAR, underlining it six or seven times. Dumbledore wouldn't believe THAT would he?! Her fingernails dig into the cover of the book she has been pretending to read all evening as she reflects that the volume is probably too light to cause any real damage anyway…

This is when he looks up. Parvati's lips tickle against his throat, she giggles when he swallows hard. Across the common room for the first time, literally in months, their eyes meet.

 _Love me._ Something whispers.

Her eyes are stormy. Not with that electric passion he is fond of, with thunder, yes, but murky and wet and filled to bursting with tears. Her lids are heavy but she doesn't blink.

This time _he_ is pretending he hasn't noticed the rain.

* * *

 _Ginny, calm down!_

Hermione is trying, with her most patient voice, dressed in new powdery-blue pyjamas and slippers once again, to understand her friend's tears.

 _She_ doesn't speak. In fits of fury she throws things around (not really wanting to break anything – what Weasley would? – except maybe herself) mumbling incoherently through the anger.

 _Ginny, stop!_

 _Her_ hands sweep across the dresser sending flurries of parchment into the air like feathers. In the next breath she has upturned her chair and with curse-words, no longer breathy whispers, she begins piling her things harshly as if preparing for a bonfire.

First are her magic books – which she longs to tear to shreds – and then her broomstick, Chocolate Frogs, a box of potions, enchanted photographs from the summer. Various trinkets and jokes from the twins' shop, hand-me-down dress robes that had been some aunt or cousins, and finally her wand. She knows she has no matches. Hermione isn't aware.

 _Please stop…_

This time the voice isn't full of pity or understanding: it's scared. _Her_ hands freeze on the mirror she had wanted to lift high above her head and then bring crashing down to the floor. She catches Hermione's eyes, dark and filled with tears in the glass and freezes.

The tears fall freely now, washing over _her_ like the rain had back in the summer. This time however there are no more screams, there will be no attic or kisses or begging him to let her in.

And this is when her knees give in, sending her to the floor without grace or poise or anything a well-bred witch should have. _He's changed…_ She gulps in between sobs that aren't helped by an arm over her shoulders.

What she wants to say is: _It's really over now, isn't it? He… Hermione…so much… Our Harry…_ MY _Harry…_

What she does say is this: _Hermione… He's changed._

Hermione's voice is firm and even as she replies with heavy meaning, _We all have._

* * *

 _She_ isn't the only one hurting.

In the darkness he sits alone and contemplates the future. He is surer now than he had ever been in his whole life: the war was going to be the end of him. Yes, it had been nice to pretend that he could love _her_ and be happy and light and smiling forever. But reality is bleak.

Outside it is sunny, cold but bright, and inside…inside his mind there is no light anymore. He is lost without her. Oh, she thinks he doesn't realise? She thinks he doesn't see that look in her brown eyes every single day, that look she is trying with all of her might to hide from Dean or Seamus or Justin or whoever wants her in that moment, but he sees.

Sometimes he thinks that her eyes merely reflect his own. He, too, is lost and searching for something.

For those few summer weeks the darkness hadn't seemed so bad. She had saved him back then, saved him for a whole year or more without even trying or _realising._ And _now…_ He was the hero, he _had_ to be, and that was the only thing he was still sure of.

Without her the darkness is returning, is stifling, is filling his lungs with a thick black hatred. But with her…with her there would be a much worse fate. For everyone.

* * *

By December _she_ has realised nothing is ever going to complete her like _he_ did. He, of course knows the same, but doesn't object when Parvati starts calling herself his _girlfriend._

* * *

The day before they are due to return to the Burrow for Christmas it snows. She watches from the common room window as Ron stuffs a handful of snow down Hermione's jumper and she squeals and chases him towards the river.

Luna and Neville make what looks to resemble a snow dragon with the utmost seriousness. For a moment Luna stops, as if engrossed in thought, arms out at her sides as she contemplates what must come next. The blonde girl begins to say something but flounders mid-sentence, turning with a curious look to meet _her_ gaze. For a moment Luna's clear eyes see right into her heart, she waves and tosses her a sad smile before returning to the dragon purposefully.

Giggles provide a sudden soundtrack to the events outside, drawing attention from the window to the portrait hole. _They_ fall through it, wet to the knees and laughing, _whispering,_ about having some time alone before going home.

 _I want you so…_

She drops her book to the floor.

 _Ginny!_ Parvati exclaims, having the modesty to blush for a moment before lifting her head high as though she hadn't done anything wrong.

Her eyes are shining in the dim light of the common room fire and her face struggles to stop from smiling. She is just like winter, _she_ thinks with a bitter taste in her mouth. Cool and calm, _mature,_ the sort of air that made grown men quiver with excitement and then…

 _Exotic beauty._ Hadn't someone called her that once? With her long, dark curtain of hair, pretty eyes, full lips and the sort of body that he would _beg_ for.

 _Harry made her glow._

 _She_ gulps and notices the change in her. Parvati Patil had always been one of the prettiest girls at school but now, with _him,_ she _shone._

In truth, with his arm around her and his name on her lips she had never looked more beautiful.

* * *

 _She_ was red and gold and blustery winds. She was fresh September air and flying on his broom and being exhilarated every moment of every day, _forever._

Parvati reminds him of summer, with her exotic scent and her warm body and all of the heat she produced without even trying. But couldn't she also be winter? Cool and calculating, her perfection sometimes breeding haughtiness. He is a lucky git, he knows that.

He also knows that he prefers the autumn.

* * *

She wants to feel beautiful again.

Alone, she thinks of the fields beyond the Burrow, of weeping willows and wildflower crowns…of his taste…of freedom and flying and falling in love for the first time.

And what she remembers, even now, is his hands on her back, his soft, green eyes and the blush when he _promised_ he'd _never hurt her._

* * *

Authors notes:

This part is for Rachel, an absent friend, always present


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